Last Goodbye
by MLaw
Summary: Illya must deal with his past as he prepares to leave the Soviet Union to begin his training for U.N.C.L.E. Exiled from the U.S.S.R forever; he meets Harry Beldon and begins the journey into his new life. # 9 Illya series
1. Chapter 1

Illya Kuryakin sat alone, well not exactly alone, he had the company of a beautiful but small bottle of Moskovskaya vodka keeping him company. At the moment it had become quite an intimate relationship between the two of them after his long day of walking around Moskva and going to the ballet.

In front of him on the coarse wood table were assorted _zakuski_snacks_ that he had treated himself to so that he could enjoy a good Russian vodka, the Russian way. He munched on bits of pickled cucumbers, smoked herring, brown bread and the dearest addition to the repast, red caviar.

In Russia one eats such things while drinking chilled vodka to enhance the flavor of the drink. But when he tried doing this during his time in Great Britain, the few drinking companions he had would torment him over it. Telling him "toss the vodka to drink whiskey like a real man!"

The comments about the food, however, were quite rude and he tired of them and for that reason he ceased attempting to eat zakuski when with his drinking companions.

He sampled the whiskey just to be amicable and found it better than the cheap Swedish vodka that was available to him, but he remained loyal to the vodka anyway, swill vodka he called it. He was after all a Russian and prone to melancholy, and drinking the swill suited his sometimes dark Russian moods better than anything else, yet there were even times when that it wouldn't help when he slipped into one of his darker states.

Tonight he was definitely in a fit of melancholia and was nicely drunk on more than half the bottle of vodka. He had agreed to leave his country and work for U.N.C.L.E. one month ago and now it would soon be time to leave and begin training for his new job. He knew what that job would be, as Alexander Waverly in his interview told him at least that much, but where he would work or with whom, he had no idea. Illya was only sure that he would be cut off from Russia and its people and that was weighing heavily on him tonight. His last night.

The Directorate had informed Kuryakin that he would be permitted to retain citizenship, as well as his military rank, was warned his only hope of coming back to Russia was to be recalled for active military service in time of war or if U.N.C.L.E. reneged on its deal with GRU. Either way, Illya knew he would be under a sentence of death if he returned to the Soviet Union, as they would never trust him again.

He never really had a choice in the whole matter as one does what one is told in the GRU, even if they are making it look like you are being given a choice. It was more like "choose what we tell you to choose or else!"

Yet he had paid his _two rubles_ now and gotten out of GRU alive, something that was unheard of. Once you were in, you were in for life, or until you died. Any one else who had tried to leave the GRU saw their end in the blast furnaces somewhere south of Moskva, near Serpkov, or so he and his fellow trainees had been told this when first recruited to the military intelligence.*

He wondered what kind of life he would have outside of Russia? Would this job with U.N.C.L.E. be just the same as with GRU...living with a sword of Damocles over his head or would it be different?

The man Waverly was not like his superiors in GRU, he seemed almost fatherly. But first impressions could be wrong and looks deceiving so it all remained to be seen. He realized that this would not be a new chapter in his life; he thought of it more as a whole new book yet to be written.

To Illya's surprise, once he had signed his contract with U.N.C.L.E. he was immediately on their payroll, at half pay Waverly told him, until he was sent for. Alexander Waverly handed him his first pay check then and there. The young Russian's eyes opened wide when he saw the amount.

"This is half pay?" He questioned.

Waverly smiled, knowing his new recruit was not displeased with it, but perhaps was taken off guard was the more appropriate reaction.

Illya's eyes were wide with surprise. The pay was not exorbitant, but to a poor man such as he, it was substantial and much more than his pay from the government!

He was careful with the money, as he had always tended to be frugal simply because he needed to be all his life; with it though he purchased only a few pieces of new clothing, a good coat, and two books. It paid for his small, private room to live in while he waited. The money also enabled him to eat fairly well, and not subsist on the near-starvation diet he had been so accustomed to. He did not overeat; but he did eat better food. He had been given a month to get his affairs in order, which he did not need, but none the less he used the time to his advantage.

While waiting, Illya was careful where he went and with whom he spoke, as he was certain that he was being watched by both KGB and GRU. He would see them slide out of view as he turned, or standing watching him as they peered over a copy of a newspaper in their hands. He was still a Russian, but he in essence, was a man now without a country and had been transformed to the status of outsider and a potential threat as soon as he had signed the contract.

He had no one here, no family, no real friends. The only man who had seemingly befriended him as a boy was Viktor Karkoff; taking him under his wing and removing him from the doom of that State Orphanage. Viktor saw something in him and saw to it that the boy received a good education; sending him to University, then the Sorbonne; grooming the young Kuryakin to someday to take a place in the Directorate. Illya was grateful for all that Viktor had given him. If it had not been for Karkoff's intervention; he would have likely ended up as a menial laborer on some farming cooperative in the middle of nowhere.

He understood now that Karkoff had only been using him for his own means, and was never really a friend and after the trouble in Paris, he heard nothing again from Viktor. Illya presumed, thanks to Katiya Revchenkov's prophetic warning, that Viktor Karkoff was now more than likely his enemy.**

Illya took the time spending his last day walking around Moskva, seeing the sights, embedding every detail in his memory. He could not bring himself to go back to Kyiv; no, too many painful memories there to haunt him like spectres in the night. It was bad enough they sometimes crawled from the grave into his dreams...he did not need to see a physical reminder of them.

He strolled _Krasnay Ploshchad_Red Square_ like a tourist, staring in awe at the colors of St. Basils, and inside the Kremlin walls...the Cathedrals of the Assumption, Annunciation and St. Michael the Archangel. He didn't go there for religious reasons as he was an atheist, he simply found the architecture beautiful. He paused for a moment in his wanderings, listening to the the church bells as they sounded, echoing across the square. He looked at his watch and sighed, he still had enough time.

He went to the Tretyakov Gallery to view the great masterpieces of Russian artists that spanned back the the 11th century, he wandered through Novodevichy Cemetery, where many of Russia's famous writers and poets lay buried. These places were but small bits and pieces of the life that he would never see again.

Lastly, Illya treated himself to an early evening at the Bolshoi, seeing Ekaterina Maximova in Don Quixote...and that brought back a whole other set of memories from his days at University in Ukraine. There someone decided he should study ballet.

He smiled to himself remembering his teacher. No one had ever quite heard such language from the petite Madame Stolanskaya, when she described his dancing skills, or more so his lack of them. That part of his education did not last long. After the dance debacle, he studied gymnastics, showing a much better aptitude for the sport. Had it not been for knee injury he would have made the Olympic squad, not first string but still an Olympic competitor. He had no regrets as life presented it with its challenges, and withdrew them as well.

There were many things that he reflected upon as he headed back to his apartment, his training, his time in the Navy, all his schooling and yes, even Katiya Revchenkov...that was one of the biggest mistakes he had ever made; a careless infatuation that could have cost him his life.

There were many life-lessons he had learned, some the hard way, and now going to work with this new organization he hoped that all he had learned here in the Soviet Union would serve him well. It was still after all the world of espionage, and that world he lived in was one of loneliness and secrecy. These were two things he was very well acquainted with.

Illya continued drinking his vodka and abandoned the food; simply letting the stupor now take him. He crossed arms on the table, and laid his head down for a moment.

His thoughts now drifting to a place he did not want to go...to those memories that lay buried for so long. The ones he hid along with his emotions and would rarely set free. Perhaps he had stared at the icons in the churches too long that day, reminding him of his grandmother...his babushka and how religious she had been. He remembered the icons that hung on the walls of their dacha and watching as she stood before them crossing herself as she prayed.

Visions of his father Nicholaí, his mother Tanya, his siblings Dimitry, Misha, Sasha...little Katiya, his Baba, Uncle Vanya, his only cousin, Anastasiya called out to him. They were all gone. Everyone. Their bodies and their ashes gave new life to the soil in places outside Kyiv; where though, he never knew for sure. He didn't want to think of them, yet they forced themselves into in consciousness.

He began to sob. The gates finally opened, letting free his tears; the pent up grief he had held back for so long, unlocked by his sadness and the Moskovskaya. Illya let himself cry as he had never truly permitted himself to mourn the loss of his family even as a young boy.

All that he had ever known and loved had been taken away from him, and now he was losing his country too.

"Perhaps it was time to just say goodbye to them and now to Russia as well," he thought in a haze of drunkenness. If he said goodbye, perhaps the ghosts would stay behind here in Russia and not follow him anymore; they were constantly in his dreams yet Illya tried to convince himself there was no such things as ghosts.

Tomorrow he would board his flight and begin his new life and as well as his banishment. He was to return to England and begin learning the ways of U.N.C.L.E. under the tutelage of a man named Harry Beldon. What was he like, what could the man teach him that did not already know? What would this new adventure hold in store for him? Would it be "life" as Alexander Waverly had said, or would it be "death" after all.

_Zhizn' ili smert'...life or death._ Only the fates knew that answer.

Illya Nickovich Kuryakin raised one last glass of vodka in a toast.

_"Proshchaí papa, mama, moy brat'ya, moy sestry. Proshaíte babushki,my dyadya,...moy dvoyurodnoi í Rossiya, kotoroya byla mat' so mnoí, kogda yo byl nikto. Segodnya ya nahozhus' zdes' iz-za tebya_ goodbye papa, mama, my brothers, my sister. Goodbye grandmother, my uncle, my cousin. Goodbye Russia, you were mother to me when I had none. Thank you. Today I am here because of you..."_

He downed the vodka and hurled the glass across the room, smashing it to pieces against the wall then reached down, putting the empty bottle of vodka on the floor beneath the table as was tradition.

Illya Kuryakin then passed out.

.

* "Inside the Aquarium: Making of a Top Soviet Spy," Viktor Suvorov

** ref "First Kill"


	2. Chapter 2

Illya Kuryakin walked down the ramp from Aeroflot jet stepping down to the tarmac of the British airport. He was already familiar with it from his time spent in the country studying at Cambridge, and functioning as a spy for the Soviet Union.

He carried only a small suitcase as most of the few things he owed, clothing, books, record, and an old guitar; he had left in storage before his his return to Moskva...he had hoped that he was going to come back from the U.S.S.R. and would not end up in a prison or one of the gulags. So the disposition of his meager belongings was not high on his list of concerns while worrying about the possibility of internment in the Soviet prison system.

But now his return to England had given him an unexpected boon as he was now an agent in training for a foreign agency that he felt he had been offered up to as a "sacrificial lamb" by his superiors at GRU. The man, Alexander Waverly had told him to prove it otherwise to them and that did give him some sense of hope in this total upheaval of his life. He was no longer a Soviet agent...and he no longer had a home. Russia was a thing of his past...

His possessions had been moved from storage to a small flat that had been arranged for him. That matter having been settled with no effort on his part left him now only to consider the remaining after effects of his hangover from the night before. With the help of some aspirin tablets and copious amounts of water; the symptoms had all but disappeared and he swore that he would not let his feelings or vodka get the better of him again!

He thought about the flat that he would live in; having discovered that certain agents, specifically sections two to be precise, were given such accommodations as they were in the field frequently enough that keeping up with rent and so forth became problematic. UNCLE solved that issue by becoming both employer and landlord.

U.N.C.L.E, apparently was also in the real-estate business, owning their own apartment buildings to house their select agents. But given his experience with Soviet intelligence; he wondered if they bugged their agent's abodes, keeping them under surveillance as had his previous employer.

He walked into the airport terminal, stopping at a news stand to purchase a copy of the London Times. And then waited for his contact to arrive.

People came and went buying their magazines, papers and other sundries, but still no one approached him with the password.

Illya began to get a little nervous but he showed no outward sign of it. He saw a well dressed man across the terminal watching him from time to time.

Finally a half hour later a man, handsomely attired in a suit wearing a hat, approached the counter purchasing a packet of cigarettes." Mumbling..."I remembered when these cost one rupee."

Illya recognizing the code and responded. " But tomorrow they could cost a two francs."

"Welcome back to England Mr. Kuryakin" the man smiled at him," I am Harry Beldon" he said, tipping his impressive hat to reveal a completely shaved head.

Illya nodded in acknowledgement to him; taking mental note that he had an accent," perhaps Slavic he guessed."

"I have a car waiting, if you will please follow me?" said Beldon.

He lead Kuryakin to a black sedan, parked with a driver a the curb side in front of the terminal. The chauffeur tried to take his suitcase, but Illya refused to release it.

"Roit, suit yerself mate;" the driver mumbled, giving him the "stink-eye."

Illya joined his escort in the back of the car. The Russian was reserved and remaining quiet, sitting next to Beldon as the vehicle pulled away into the heavy airport traffic.

"Would you prefer to go to your flat to freshen up or to go directly to headquarters?" Beldon asked him.

"Headquarters please?" he answered." I wish to begin my training immediately, sir"

Beldon laughed..."None of this "sir" stuff if you please... call me Harry."

He reached to the side door and opened a mini- bar, offering Illya a vodka."Uhod z napitok_ care for a drink?" Beldon asked him in Russian.

Illya felt his stomach tighten at the thought and declined the offer with a wave of his hand. "Spacibo...nyet_thank you... no."

"Ah! To work already? All work and no play can make Illya a dull boy! Beldon smiled at him with a wink."You will find young man, if you just let yourself consider the possibilities that life here in the west can be most comfortable...certainly more so than your life in Russian had ever been; you will be quite happy here.

"Happiness is not a consideration" he thought as he was coming to UNCLE to do a job and was not in search of something so ethereal. Illya ignored Beldon's words then asked him a question instead.

" Why did you wait before contacting me at the terminal? I saw you standing watching me for some time."

"Very good Mr. Kuryakin. Observant...patient. Perhaps I was just standing back to watch you and nothing more?"

Illya suddenly asked, " You are Slavic are you not, yet Harry Beldon is not a Slavic name."

Beldon hesitated..."Most people cannot pick that up from my accent, also very good Mr. Kuryakin." he nodded."My full name is Henryk Beldonski... I was raised in Krakow and emigrated here with my parents as a young man."

Illya made note...too much personal information being offered."And the man does not even know me? Are all these U.N.C.L.E. people this careless?" he thought. He wondered what he would truly be able to learn from this man?

Illya was taken to London headquarters and walking through it's simple grey halls; he was impressed by the sleek orderly appearance, not having a trace of the bourgeois trappings that he had expected... that was until he was escorted into Harry Beldon's office, which seemed him to be the epitome of decadence!

The room was filled with antiques, Grecian statues, paintings and well as many over-sized plants. Beldon had a personal steam room adjoining his office where Illya was later sure where one of the many women that seemed to grace the man's arms no doubt met him for their assignations.

The Russian was simply amazed that the man was able to function in the espionage arena as successfully as he had heard the man did. Illya had done some research of his own on Harry Beldon and found he had a surprisingly successful reputation, but at the same time was also known for his "eccentricities."

And so, in spite of the outrageous personality and tastes of Harry Beldon; Illya Kuryakin began to settle in to learning the ways of his new employer. He had been told by Alexander Waverly that he would not at present attend their field training session at a place called "Survival Island." That was to come later. And he was just to follow Beldon's lead...

Illya learned to distinguish what was important and glean from the teachings of Beldon that was useful. It became obvious to the Russian that Harry had his own agenda, and he did not appreciate being caught up in it. Eventually he felt that the man was simply using him as a means to an end.

That was three years ago and now he was being transferred to the New York headquarters. Once he completed the session at Survival School, the last leg of his training; Illya Kuryakin would begin the latest chapter in the new book of his life that began the moment he became an agent of The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. What that new chapter held in store for him still remained to be seen...


	3. Chapter 3

"Survival School...this is what they call it?" " Illya mumbled to himself." as he looked around the lush plant life of a semi-tropical island as he and the fourteen recruits disembarked from the submarine and made their way up from the pier along a path through the lush foliage and palm trees. It looked more like a bit of a paradise to him when he remembered his survival training back in Russia.

His thoughts went instantly to the forced marches during his GRU training in three feet of snow wearing only underwear and boots. "That was survival" he said to himself. Though he was already finding the temperature a bit uncomfortable on the island as he was not accustomed to heat and humidity.

As they approached the compound Illya was taken aback at first, as it was fenced in such a way that it reminded Illya of a concentration camp...the only things missing were the armed guards in watch towers. It made him feel a bit uneasy.

They quickly lined up in formation dropping their dufflebags at their feet and one by one a man called out the names of the recruits and each acknowledged themselves.

"Jacobs, Miller, Stone, Anderson, Lerhner, MacKenzie, Spinelli, Jablonski, Kuryakin...Jules Cutter stopped at Illya's name, momentarily eyeing the Russian up and down, then shaking his head; he proceeded with the rest of the names, Kennedy, Schmidt, Paulsen, Binghampton and two female recruits, Jackson and Savio.

"Welcome to the agent training facility of The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. I am Jules Cutter the head of this school. You are here to learn the skills that will keep your sorry asses from getting killed in the field as operatives for this organization."

Many of you have experience from your previous jobs and I tell you right here and now that doesn't mean squat! So forget any namby-pamby training that you had. Your candy-asses are mine here, and you are nothing but a blank sheet of paper for me and only me to write, on am I clear?" There was no answer at first and he repeated loudly "AM I CLEAR?"

Those with a military background took the lead responding,"Sir, Yes Sir!"

Cutter spotted one of the recruits with a little smirk on his face.

"You think that's funny Mister? snarled Cutter as he looked down at the list of names on his clipboard "...Jablonski?"

"No sir," replied the man, now embarrassed for having been singled out.

"I can't hear you...you little puke!"

"NO SIR!" answered Jablonski.

"Well boy...you drop and give me twenty- five right now!

The man instantly lowered himself to the ground and began to perform push ups, counting aloud as he did so.

"I am not here to coddle you and to hold your hands people, so get this through those thick little skulls of yours right now. You are here to learn to survive! IF you make it out into the field as agents, there will be no one to pick you up off your butts if you fall down... unless you are good enough to earn yourself a partner with this here organization!"

"You will be quartered in barracks number four...the females in number seven. Now get yourselves settled in and back here in fifteen minutes dressed to run. HOP TO IT!" he barked," Dismissed!"

"Holy crap!" Illya heard one of other recruits mutter," I didn't know we'd be back in boot camp?

Yeah," said another" do you believe that guy?"

lllya picked up his bag, heading for the building and once inside he chose a bunk midway down the line. He unpacked only clothes and toiletries as nothing else was permitted. His weapons, communicator and everything else "UNCLE" that he possessed had been sent on headquarters in New York and awaited his return from this mysterious island located some where in the middle of the Pacific ocean.

He quickly changed to his running shorts, a loose fitting t-shirt and sneakers and headed immediately out to the compound, finding he was the first to arrive.

Jules Cutter walked over to him..."so Comrade, you're Alexander Waverly's pet project?"

"Excuse me sir?' Illya answered, not letting on that he had heard that term spoken before in reference to him.

"Don't pull that with me you little "Pinko faggot!"

Illya had heard that term before referenced to himself as well.

"I do not understand, sir. Can you please clarify the need to refer to me with such slurs?"

"Shut your mouth Kury-a-kin! You, with your sissy-Mary long hair, will not address me unless asked and you will not question the manner in which I speak to you! Now you drop right now and give me fifty!

Illya sighed, lowering himself and began his push ups.

Cutter leaned down to him, whispering "and just for that sigh...you can add another twenty-five to the count. Now let me hear you, you sorry son of a bitch!"

Illya began calling out his count...seven, eight, nine..."

Most of the other recruits had arrived and lined up around the Russian as he completed his punishment. Illya rose to join them in formation; his t-shirt soaked in perspiration, clinging to his skin, but he was none the worse for wear.

A man in running gear had joined Cutter in front of the recruits and began to speak. I am Professor Franco Manetti otherwise known as "il dottore"_the doctor and I will be your lead trainer for your stay at this facility...Gentlemen and ladies, we will begin with a five mile run across the island, going forward we will do this every morning a zero-five hundred hours."

"The course will vary each day, and it will be filled with traps and obstacles. It is your job to navigate and complete this course without getting caught. There will be days when you run it in teams. You will learn to cooperate while completing the course. I warn you now, trust is not a thing to be given...but earned. At times in this course, some of your fellow recruits may or may not be instructed to work in opposition to you. You will learn to be vigilant at all times! NOW, let's go PEOPLE!"

They moved out, following Smith along a path leading into the jungle., then after a short distance, the man disappeared, leaving the recruits on their own to find their way, tracking through the dense growth, looking for signs telling them the way to go.

The majority of the recruits were "gung ho" and Illya knew that sort of attitude would get them into trouble...so he hung back waiting and observing. One by one he watched them get caught in snares, pits and other assorted traps until he and the German named Lerhner were the only ones left. The two emerged from the jungle and back to the compound unscathed.

Over the next five months Illya and Eric Lehrner developed a sort of rivalry, being the only ones who managed to evade capture during the morning runs. The recruits received not only physical training, dodging bullets in live-fire obstacle courses, weapons and explosives training, but in the art of dead-drops, interrogation and so forth... all things that Illya Kuryakin was so very familiar with already, giving him a bit of an advantage over the others. He never flaunted his abilites and kept to himself, sometimes not by choice as most of the recruits did not like the idea a Russian Communist being among their ranks. Illya found it ironic though that when it came time for team work and team competitions, his help was generally sought out.

Cutter threw things at the Russian, constantly increasing the difficulty of his tasks trying to trip him up and each time Illya surprised the man and succeeded, sometimes barely, but he succeeded none the less. It was then that Illya began to hear the name "Napoleon Solo" repeated again and again by Cutter and the other trainers.

Solo had graduated from Survival School two years earlier and his unparalleled performance had now set the standards by which all new recruits were judged. Illya managed to tie and even break some of Solo's records and begrudgingly, Cutter began to see the Russian in a different light.

Illya Kuryakin was smart, hardworking and dedicated. The man took what ever was dealt him with strength and stoicism and had not uttered one word of complaint . And although he seemed to be a loner, Kuryakin still was able the function as a team member when it was required of him. The prejudices of the other recruits was not lost on Jules Cutter, who had been a but guilty of it himself when it came to the Russian.

And when the final oath of allegiance to UNCLE was sworn in blood by nine of the original fourteen recruits, including the Russian; Jules Cutter knew that he had misjudged Illya Kuryakin .It was only Kuryakin and Lehrner that were graduaterd as section two agents...though no one knew that the Russian had been previuosly classified that while stationed in London... another of Waverly's well-kept secrets regarding his Russian.

Jules Cutter called the Russian into his office asking him to sit for a moment.

"Listen son, I know I rode you pretty hard, but I have to say you came through with flying colors. I was against Alexander Waverly's idea of bringing a Soviet into the organization, but now after seeing you in action, I realize that you are a man of integrity and honor. I'd like to offer you my hand in a personal welcome to the fold."

"Thank you sir," said Illya," I will try not to let you down." He was flattered that a "hard nose" American patriot like Jules Cutter was now willing to accept him, a Russian on equal terms.

As a reward for Kuyakin's successes and attitude; Cutter asked him to stay on a month after graduation to teach one of their courses in explosives... an area in which Illya dispayed a definite knowledge and talent for.

Illya finally left Surival School in the spring, heading to his new life in New York, where he soon met the famed Napoleon Solo...his future partner and eventually his best friend.


End file.
